Hands clasped behind his back, Ambassador Drake took one last look around the observation deck. “I must say, I am impressed.” Everything was set, appetizers and aperitifs sourced from the Empire, the Republic and the Federation, along with a smattering of local cuisine for the curious. All they needed now were their guests, those from the ships on secondment to the Fourth Fleet that’d come along with their divisions and squadrons to the Colludia System.

“Thank you, sir,” Lieutenant Commander Lawton smiled. For the last three days, she and the staff had hustled to get everything right, giving up shore leave with their colleagues to ensure it was just right. It had been no small task. If it had been a regular banquet, it would have been no big deal. They’d hosted those regularly aboard the USS Kennedy. But this time, the ambassador had thrown in a twist: dishes were to be sourced from each of the three cultures in attendance, meant to offer a taste of home for foreign sailors and an exchange of flavor for those willing to try.

As if giving one last check, the ambassador reached over and helped himself to a pudding cup with an orange-red hue, plopping it whole into his mouth. The flavors were bold, savory and rich. “Mmm. Perfectly seasoned blood pie.”

“Quite daring, sir,” Chief Petty Officer Shafir chuckled. “I’d rather have an empty stomach than one full of that.”

“Developed a taste for Rokeg blood pie during a stint in the Triangle,” Ambassador Drake shared before looking back over at Lieutenant Commander Lawton. “Please tell chef that if he told me this was fresh from Beta Lankal, I’d have totally believed it.”

“I’m sure he’ll appreciate the…” Lieutenant Commander Lawton began to say, but she stopped short as the door to the observation deck slid open and a trio of Klingons stepped through.

A HoD led the way, flanked by two taller female Klingons. One was clearly his second by the way she carried herself, while the other bore a striking resemblance to him but wore the uniform of a Starfleet science officer. The Starfleet officer, a lieutenant commander by the pips on her collar, carried a large hardwood barrel upon her shoulder.

Ambassador Drake stepped towards them. “Welcome to the USS Kennedy, HoD Gravok,” he offered, recalling the young captain’s name and face from the pre-read he’d had his staff put together. “It is an honor to have you and your colleagues for tonight’s festivities.”

The HoD scanned the room, noting the carefully arranged spread of food and beverage, the mix of cultures represented on the trays, some quite familiar to him. Then, in a move that caught the old ambassador by surprise, he extended his hand in a distinctly human gesture.

“I presume you are Ambassador Drake,” HoD Gravok said as they shook hands. “It is a distinct pleasure to meet you. I am HoD Gravok, son of Ulrath, of House Korvath.” As he withdrew his hand, he then looked to the taller of his entourage. “My sister here has told me you are highly respected in your tradecraft.”

“Seasoned, at least,” Ambassador Drake chuckled as he looked at them, realizing how young they were, that it would have been their parents, or grandparents even, that might have served alongside him during the war.

The Klingon lieutenant commander outstretched her hand, somehow keeping the large barrel balanced atop her other shoulder all the while. “It is good to meet you, sir. I am Lieutenant Commander K’Rell, daughter of Ulrath, of the House of Korvath, assigned to the USS Solvang. We have brought you a barrel of Aldebaran whiskey, a 2293 vintage.”

“What a fine year,” Ambassador Drake smiled warmly. “For more reasons than one.” That year had not just produced a fine harvest on Aldebaran, but it also marked a turn in the relationship between the Federation and the Klingon Empire. If that selection had been intentional, it said much about the respect HoD Gravok and his house meant to convey. “Ortega, Lawton, can you two please help our dear friend here with the barrel?”

Ensign Ortega, standing off to the ambassador’s side, eyed the barrel skeptically. It was an oaken wood wrapped in heavy metal bands that appeared likely to weigh more than her and Lieutenant Commander Lawton combined. She wasn’t much sure how she would be of help.

Lieutenant Commander K’Rell, though, shrugged them off. “It is no problem, at all,” she said. “Just show me where to put it, ensign.” 

Effortlessly, the lieutenant commander carried it over to the table indicated by Ensign Ortega, and then she set it down without so much as a thud.

“The wood is presentation-grade T’men,” Lieutenant Commander K’Rell offered as she stepped back from it. “It leeches metallic nutrients abundantly from the soil, affording incredible resilience and reflective properties. It was hand-selected for its chatoyance. The grain dances like flames in the light, and the metal bands are forged from baakonite by Korvath himself.”

“Our house constructed this barrel,” HoD Gravok added proudly. “It is of great importance to us. It was grown and hewn on Vragh, House Korvath’s home planet.”

“To forge the bands of friendship with metal typically reserved for one’s blade, and by the hand that leads your house, says much of your intentions,” Ensign Ortega offered warmly.

“House Korvath does not present a gift in an unworthy vessel,” HoD Gravok replied. “Our House craftsmen will be pleased their work is recognized.”

“We receive it with the intent its offering signifies,” Ambassador Drake nodded.

Gravok bowed his head in approval, a gesture that, from him, was worth a long string of pleasantries from others.

The third Klingon then stepped forth and extended her hand, palm angled downward, a gesture blending ancient aristocratic etiquette with unmistakable authority. “Greetings, Ambassador. I am la’ Dovrah. Your reputation precedes you.”

“In an appropriately pleasant and collaborative manner, I hope?” Ambassador Drake probed lightly, aware that not always had his exchanges with the Empire been smooth. But that was simply the reality of diplomacy. Not every exchange went well, not until mutual understanding was achieved. And that’s part of what this was all about.

“If others in the Federation are as accommodating, there is hope yet,” la’ Dovrah nodded. “You call yourself seasoned, yet I gather that honed would be more appropriate. You have been tempered in many fires. Only a keen edge can cut down so many foes. You wage wars of diplomacy now, armed with your words.”

“Maybe you’ll write my next annual review for me?” Ambassador Drake laughed. He was not accustomed to such words. He wondered, too, whether this sentiment was shared by others within the Imperial power structure, or rather this was more the impact of secondment and the respect it fostered through shared responsibility.

His reference, though, passed right over the Klingon ‘la, and instead, as the first Romulan delegation stepped across the threshold onto the observation deck, she leaned in, her voice falling to little more than a whisper. “Not all battles are waged with a blade or disruptor in hand, Ambassador. Some even occur in the observation decks of starships, and I am curious to see what tonight’s conflict shall yield.”